A Man in Love.
It was a novel he could no more dictate to a secretary than he could have dictated Werther. But this was a novel that would have a happy end. For long enough he had couched life’s difficult negativities in palatable language. At last, a tone without that tawdry tension pressing for resolution. A tone without discord or harmony. A tone made of nothing but itself. No borrowing from a chromaticism distorted by artifice and anguish. No program. A tone. There on the paper at its first outpouring:
A Man in Love.
Again he can believe what the summer is telling him. Again he can mingle with the butterflies and be mistaken for the glowing lupine. Fortunately, this day will never end. The era in which something was more important than something else is over. At long last the questions have fled to their negative continent. Ulrike’s independence makes him rich. He still hears the prompts but he doesn’t understand them. His willfulness is pure gold. Ulrike and he succeed at what was always meant to succeed. As soon as Ulrike is his, he will found world peace. Enmity—a dead language. Everything bad in this world comes only from his not yet having Ulrike. His entire life long, he was never bored for a second. Now he could go mad from boredom if he can’t at least see her. Whoever wants to save the world must give him Ulrike. When he touches something, it blossoms, and doesn’t stop blossoming. The days are of silk, the world a warm wind. The birds strut their resounding jewelry and sing only her name. I wish never again to be as devout as I am now. Because he lost beauty, Plato invented memory. I will lose memory because I have found beauty. If you are with me, the future and the past have no value. Privation, please, do not break out. Dream, safeguard me. To sit opposite her makes you as light as she is. Her gaze holds you. There is nothing as reliable as her gaze. I will not cry out anymore and will weep only from happiness. I shall surprise your mouth carefully, discover your breasts with devout hands. Your lightness will celebrate victories. When you extend both hands across the table to me before we begin to eat, my hands will receive you: saying grace in a new religion. There will be nothing we shall not want to learn from each other. If I am permitted to love you, I am immortal. Then and only then. Now I know why I was never able to hate anyone. My whole life long there was a love living within me that slept and dreamed and once or twice ran riot. Its name was such-and-such or so-and-so. It fled back and was really only waiting. That is what gave me the strength for everything. Now I know: My love was waiting for you. If you do not want it, it will destroy me. And I won’t resist. My love does not know I’m over seventy. Neither do I.
He was aware of how he had written his way into the tone he desired.
The King of Württemberg’s costume ball will be the public dress rehearsal for the Man in Love. Costumes from dark bygone ages down to the sunlit present is what the invitation said. Even before he had finished reading it, he knew what his costume would be: a light blue frock coat, a yellow vest, and boots. But that had to be kept secret from everyone. Only Stadelmann and Blastimir the tailor were in on it.
Stadelmann was delighted to again be allowed to be part of an adventure. And when Blastimir—who until now had only been asked to do alterations—had been told what the costume was to be, he cried, Werther! He was the right man for the job. Blue frock coat, yellow vest, boots of very pale leather.
When Ulrike asked who he would be at the ball, he told her he wouldn’t say.
“All right then,” she said. “I’m happy to join in this secretiveness.” Her mother would appear as Madame de Pompadour and Count Klebelsberg as Louis XIV. Dr. Rehbein and Catty von Gravenegg were coming as Romeo and Juliet, the Duke of Leuchtenberg as Prometheus bringing mankind not fire, but the steam engine … Like Ulrike and Goethe, the Princess von Hohenzollern and the Count of Saint-Leu weren’t giving away who they would be, either. The ball would be held across the way in the palais.
As often as they continued to promenade before the evening of the ball—since he wouldn’t say who he was going to be, she wouldn’t reveal her costume either.
Was he allowed to guess?
He was, but she wouldn’t tell him if he was right or wrong.
“The Maid of Orléans,” he said. Since she gave him an almost instantaneous look of surprise, he thought he had guessed her costume at the first try and said it wasn’t hard. After all, Schiller was her poet and female figures one would like to escort for an entire evening’s ball were rather scarce in his work. You could eliminate Queen Elizabeth and Mary Queen of Scots because they’re too political. No one would ever want to be Amalie from The Robbers. And so, and so, and so … the Maid. Now there’s a figure with which you can dominate the ballroom. The natural boldness inherent in all of Ulrike’s gestures always had something of the Maid of Orléans. She is smiling, he thought, as never before. He had guessed it.
“What about you?” she asked.
“Not a hero from Schiller,” he said. He was glad she wasn’t coming as Gretchen at the spinning wheel. She had everything necessary to be the Maid.
It was good that it was raining the day of the ball, because as their coaches drove up to the Klebelsbergs’ portal, they emerged wrapped in overcoats and shawls. Since Goethe had only to cross the street, he walked to the ball in a coat and hat. His dark summer coat had a stand-up collar lined with red velvet. At the top, the collar was turned over the width of a finger to let the red velvet shine. Goethe looked himself over and was quite satisfied. He was glad the weather made it possible to hide his Werther costume beneath the lightweight summer coat. He bowed to Stadelmann like a courtier from the ancien régime and Stadelmann called out, “Excellency, s’il vous plaît,” ran for the powder puff, and muted the white of his hair with a whiff of ocher powder. “It was too stark,” he murmured, “much too stark.”
Goethe said, “Ah, Stadelmann, many thanks,” and gave another, even more effusive, bow, and left.
In the palais, the men and the women were supposed to wait in separate groups for a signal from the orchestra and then enter the ballroom through various doors, but simultaneously. Then the gentlemen lined up against one wall and across the room, before the enormous windows with incised floral patterns, stood the ladies. He saw Ulrike. It was more than a bolt from the blue. She stood there in a simple white dress, pale red ribbons on the sleeves and at the rather austere neckline, austere in comparison to the neckline jamborees on display to the left and right of Lotte-Ulrike.
Directly the maître de cérémonies raised his golden staff, struck the floor three times, and the orchestra began to play. Couples walked toward each other and bowed. Arms encircled and hands took hold according to the roles that were to be acted out and danced. Ulrike-Lotte—pure Nature. Little white stockings, little flat, black, buckled shoes from bygone times. She had set her usually free-falling hair into tight curls as part of her costume. And today, the girl who wore new fashion statements from Vienna every day was wearing the simplest little white dress. It was a costume, or rather, she was Lotte. He could picture how Amalie and Bertha had laughed when Lotte appeared before them and asked, What do you think of me? A starker contrast was not possible than that between the mother, costumed as a splendid courtier and this daughter as an everlasting girl.
Abruptly, the orchestra fell silent. The maître announced that now each couple would have a dance to perform whom they were representing this evening. The jury, chaired by His Serene Highness Grand Duke Carl August would award the Golden Laurel Wreath of Terpsichore to the best couple. First Julie von Hohenzollern whirled into the center of the ballroom and the Count of Saint-Leu as Marat had no chance, so quickly did his Charlotte Corday pull out the flashing red dagger that dangled between her breasts and plunge it through his opened shirt into the pre-painted bloody spot. The Duke of Leuchtenberg’s steamship Prometheus was divided in two halves between himself and his wife. When they joined in a dance, they made the whole ship. The maître helped out with humorous commentary.
Then came Werther and Lotte. There wasn’t much to say. Everyo
ne had recognized who they were. However, the maître’s commentary showed that he thought this pairing was Goethe’s idea. Only he and Ulrike knew that Ulrike and he had chosen these roles independent of each other. That was their adventure: that they had chosen each other without previous agreement. That she had chosen Lotte on her own and he Werther on his own made them a happy couple now amid the ballroom splendor and the clamor of the music. Ulrike emerged from herself completely. She played Lotte. Played the Lotte who at the boring provincial ball is immediately captivated when that passionate beanpole by the name of Werther whirls her around so that she loses all earthly weight. Enjoying her role completely, Ulrike told him so loudly that it was audible in the ballroom—shouted it rapturously into his ear: “When I was younger there was nothing I liked better than novels.” And faithful to his text he shouted back, “I’ve never danced so easily before.” And so it was. And never since they’d known each other had they been the same age, but now they were. He could feel it: She leaned back, he held her, they flew. They were demonstrating that nothing in the whole world could disturb two people in love. Clearly, they had left their personalities behind, had become roles, costumes, Lotte and Werther. And it was also because the music had immediately understood and assumed this mood. And oh, how they thanked each other for what they had just accomplished together!
Next came Romeo and Juliet—another display of ardent intimacy, but play with an eye to the tragic ending. Dr. Rehbein and Catty von Gravenegg, one half of each face florid, the other pale as death. He was florid on the right side, she on the left, and the sides turned away from each other were deathly pale. At first came a melancholic performance, but the florid side won out. Then Amalie von Levetzow as Madame de Pompadour in a dress (a billow of green-golden silk that made it hard to know how she kept it on) and earrings brushing her naked shoulders. Golden sandals held on her bare feet by almost invisibly thin straps. The towering mass of black hair was held up by a golden butterfly. Amalie von Levetzow! Without doubt the evening’s most beautiful woman. The count as her Louis made an almost sober impression despite his magnificent black costume. Only his wig and the white lace emerging from his cuffs could claim to hold their own against his consort’s glorious fleshiness. To be sure, his gestures and demeanor were genuinely sovereign. A bit labored, they smacked of lessons from a dancing master. But why not? He had to act out his need to conceal his appetite until Madame de Pompadour brought him to the point of admitting how pleasant it was to be conquered by her.
The couples rested while the jury conferred. Amalie von Levetzow said to Ulrike and Goethe, “That was a real conspiracy—Lotte and Werther!”
“Madame de Pompadour was already taken,” said Ulrike.
And her mother: “But the Maid of Orléans was still free.”
“Yes,” cried Goethe. “That was my guess the whole time.”
Ulrike: “I did not want to carry a weapon.”
Her mother refused to believe the two of them had done this without consulting each other.
Ulrike said, “Nothing is as hard to believe as the truth.”
Her mother: “If that’s the truth, then …” and fell silent.
Goethe saw her looking at him as she had never looked before. He waved his hand through the air to dispel her gaze. It succeeded. With a shake of her head and a laugh, she relaxed an expression that had quickly turned severe. Even before Goethe lifted his hand to distract her gaze, Count Klebelsberg had called, “Where are we then, Amalie?” in his Viennese accent.
At some point Goethe asked Ulrike if they shouldn’t fetch themselves a little something from the caterer in the buffet room. He looked at her in such a way that she had to see this was only a pretext. She went along. Those taking advantage of the buffet table had the choice of sitting or standing. Ulrike took some of her favorite pralines—the ones with cognac filling—and he had a waffle. But they had barely sat down at a little table when they were joined by others. When Romeo and Juliet came up but found all the seats at this table taken, Goethe said, “Please, take my seat.” He said it to the big, blonde, half deathly pale, half wildly florid Catty. Catty, who was carrying several little plates of delicacies, sat down gratefully and remarked loudly that chivalry was not dead yet. Goethe looked at Ulrike, gestured with his head and also pointed his thumb in the same direction. Ulrike understood and without further disturbance, they went out. On the uphill side of the palais was a sloping meadow. The path was lit intermittently by hurricane lanterns. Goethe led the way, then allowed Ulrike to catch up with him. They stood facing each other in the half-light. He knew he mustn’t do anything that would bring them closer together. It was all as beautiful as it wasn’t. The path grew steeper and led to an old grove of trees.
He said that in the first version of his Werther novel, Lotte had worn a single flesh-colored bow instead of pale red ribbons.
“Flesh-colored instead of pale red,” said Ulrike, “I would have liked that.”
He wouldn’t have, he said. Pale red was not an ingratiating word, but flesh-colored even less so. And besides, she had applauded as a vegetarian.
She said she wasn’t one and would never be. Oh, she didn’t know what she would be or wouldn’t be.
“Ulrike,” he said, “come, let us return to humanity.”
He was expecting her to say, Not yet, let’s tarry another minute in the rain-fresh air. Because she said nothing, he had to go and he walked faster than intended and tripped over a branch. His hands and arms flailed wildly, trying to keep his balance. He didn’t succeed. He fell. He threw his right hand forward, stretched out his right knee, both too late. At the last second, he tried to turn his face to the side, and was only half successful, landing on his forehead and nose, between the middle of his forehead and his right temple and on the right side of his nose. Ulrike screamed. Then she stood looking down at him, crying and repeating “No, no, no, no.” He was at once overcome by the fear that always lay in wait. Anything but a fall. Often enough in the Weimar winters, he would hear news about who had fallen and how bad it was—a fractured femur, a dislocated hip. The resolution he had drummed into himself was: Never fall! Now he had fallen. And he had fallen because he was with Ulrike in the semidarkness and hadn’t been watching the path. He had given in to an emotion made necessary by their conversation. He rolled onto his back. He must seem to Ulrike like a fish out of water. He fingered the places on his forehead and nose where he had fallen. He felt the blood running over his face. It was difficult to stand up. Ulrike wanted to get help. “No, please no,” he said and painfully got up on one knee and then even more painfully back up on his feet. Now he asked Ulrike to go back to the palais after all and ask Dr. Rehbein to come out without attracting attention. “And bring bandages,” he called after her. Dr. Rehbein came and was horrified, wanted to help support Goethe back into the palais, where there was more light, but Goethe wouldn’t allow it. It was nothing, only two places that Dr. Rehbein should please look after and stop the bleeding. The doctor cleaned the wounds, dabbed at them, brushed them with ointment, and observed the effect. Then he said, “We’re lucky, it’s not bleeding anymore.” Goethe refused the bandage he wanted to apply. The doctor gave in. “Herr Privy Councilor, I am so sorry you had need of me, but it makes me equally happy.” He would have another look at the wound tomorrow. Now back to the ballroom for the award ceremony. And he was gone. Goethe and Ulrike stood facing each other. Ulrike was still looking up at the wound. Driven out of Paradise, he thought. Fallen from Paradise. Ulrike was speechless. She obviously didn’t know what to do or say. It had probably been an awful sight when he tried to stand up. She would never forget his arms and hands flailing just before he fell.
He said he wouldn’t return to the ballroom.
“What about the Wreath of Terpsichore?” she suddenly asked in a different tone, “the Golden Laurel Wreath of Terpsichore? Please come! A stupid branch, a wet path, half-darkness—it could have happened to anyone.” She was lying now. She knew very well
that it could only happen to him, and only to him because he was seventy-four.
So now he said resolutely, “I am seventy-four.”
Her vehement reply: “You’re exaggerating again, Excellency—seventy-three.”
“No,” he said, “On January first of every year I’m always as old as I will turn on August twenty-eighth.”
“But for me, you’re seventy-three. Believe it or not, seventy-three is a wonderful number. Numbers can also be beautiful or less than beautiful. Seventy-three is such a beautiful number you want to kiss it.” And she laid her hands on his shoulders and approached her mouth to his until they touched and then a little farther. And that’s where she left her mouth. He laid his hands on her shoulders, pulled her a little closer, but really only a little bit. They stood thus for an immeasurably long time.
“Come, Excellency,” she said.
Inside, the maître was just about to announce the winners of the Golden Laurel Wreath of Terpsichore, and he asked His Royal Highness to officiate. Up on the podium, the Grand Duke (Ulrike had remarked that with the immensely broad white vest that always emerged from his open coats, he looked like a master baker) announced that the five-man jury unanimously awarded the Golden Laurel Wreath of Terpsichore to the couple Lotte and Werther. The applause showed that that was the opinion not just of the jury, but of the audience, too. Goethe walked forward with Ulrike, Ulrike taking his arm. The pain had to be accepted. They mounted the podium and the duke first placed the Golden Laurel Wreath on Ulrike’s head. Then he went to crown Goethe as well, but his hands paused halfway up, and he cried, “Worthy friends, illustrious co-celebrants, the president of your jury was on the point of overlooking what makes this couple particularly deserving of the prize. When they moved us all so deeply with their fervent dancing, the dim lighting made me miss the high point of the Werther-poet’s Werther costume. Now at the last second and from close up, I see—and perhaps one or two of my fellow ball-goers have noticed, too—only now do I see what makes Werther Werther: right where the forehead becomes the temple, the bullet hole! Bravo, dear friend, esteemed poet, bravissimo!” Everyone applauded. Then as the duke finished placing the wreath on Goethe’s head, he said, “What should we celebrate if not our wounds! I congratulate you and I also congratulate you, lovely lady, without whom there can be no Werther.” Thunderous applause. Ulrike pressed even more firmly against her friend. The orchestra struck up a spirited accompaniment. Ulrike and Goethe bowed and returned to their table. Ulrike informed her mother and Count Klebelsberg of his fall. Both were horrified, but Goethe said in an almost jaunty tone, “Merely a kiss from Mother Earth.”
A Man in Love Page 8
